The Fate of Prospero (Renegades Saga, Book 3)
by Renegades Inc
Summary: Warmaster Horus Lupercal has gathered those of his brothers loyal to mankind against the power of the Chaos God-Emperor, first among which is Magnus the Red. But the Emperor has sent bloody Angron to Magnus's home world of Prospero. Magnus and Leman Russ of the Space Wolves hurry to defend it, and a war of brothers begins. Written by gothik, 2012. Takes place late 002.M31.
1. Introduction

It is a period of failing light. Warmaster Horus Lupercal observes dark changes in the Imperium of Man he serves.

For the nigh-immortal Emperor of Mankind has struck a grim bargain with the four Chaos Gods, eldritch nightmares thirsting for human suffering. The Space Marines, once the Imperium's finest soldiers, are turning into monsters. Most monstrous of all are the bloodthirsty World Eaters, and they are now heading to the Thousand Sons' home world of Prospero, to destroy it utterly.

But not all of the Space Marines, and their leaders, the ultrahuman Primarchs, remain loyal to the Imperium. Horus Lupercal and nine others were not privy to the Emperor's plans. As the shock settles over them, and plans of rebellion are drafted, two Primarchs head to battle. Magnus the Red of the Thousand Sons has seen the doom of his home, and together with Leman Russ of the Space Wolves, he hurries back. The savage violence of the Space Wolves, the gladiatorial madness of the World Eaters, and the mystical power of the Thousand Sons converge, and the stage for a battle of brothers is set.

A new path for the galaxy is open, paved with the ashes of worlds. The age of debate and enlightenment is over, but the dream of empire remains.

Only now, it is a black dream.


	2. Chapter One

They had been told, ever since they had entered the Legion of the Crimson King, that the Great Ocean was to be feared and respected, and that those that respected it would find it easier to travel. So it had been for a number of years, until now.

Captain Alim of the Thousand Sons' Battle Barge _Great Traveller_, and of the Legion's recently formed 23rd Fellowship, did not know what had changed. Like the other Thousand Sons who were scattered across the Imperium on the Great Crusade, he was finding it difficult to plough through the Warp to reach Prospero. The waves of the Empyrean were churning violently, and the Gellar Field around his vessel was barely holding her own.

At first it had been calm; but then, the closer he got to the exit point that would put him within a day of Prospero, it was like someone had flipped a switch, and the quiet ride became a great storm. The blast shields were down, saving the sensibilities of the human crew; there were things that resided in the Great Ocean capable of driving a normal human insane.

And, it seemed, not only a normal human.

Alim held onto the armrests of his command throne and cursed slightly as his vessel was buffeted, like some child's toy. He could barely believe the summons that had come from the Crimson King; his beloved home world was going to be attacked. He had thought for a moment that the Space Wolves had finally been unleashed against them, and tried to think what possible crime could warrant the sons of Russ coming to bring the Emperor's Justice upon their heads, or whether Russ had gone rogue from his hatred of psykers. However, when he had been told the Space Wolves were with them, he had been stunned like his warriors of the 23rd Fellowship, and wondered if his father had finally succumbed to warp madness.

There was no love lost between the Rout and the most psychic of the Legions; in truth, their animosity ran deeper then many believed, and there was nothing that Alim feared more then a Space Wolf in full frenzy. However, when he learnt who was going to be attacking his homeworld instead of Russ, he had still cursed thousandfold.

How dare the Red Angel and his deranged sons provoke an unwarranted attack on the beautiful world of Prospero?! All of it made him only more determined to ride this wave to the land of his birth. Angron and the World Eaters would find the sons and daughters of Prospero not so easy to cull. But there were whispers of more - of the Emperor having gone mad. And they did not come from his own Legion.

Magnus's own orders over the past year had been strange enough by themselves. After Nikaea, he ordered most of the Legion to retreat onto Prospero. Then, he saw something in the Warp, and hurried aboard the Photep to search for Horus Lupercal. Meanwhile, he divided each of the nine Fellowships of the Thousand Sons into five, while simultaneously ordering the release of all Tutelaries. The Thousand Sons did as their Primarch commanded (and certainly Alim did not mind becoming a captain), but there were whispers.

"We are through the worst of it, Lord."

His thoughts were brought back to the here and now, and he turned his attention to the human commander of his ship, responsible for the _Great Traveller_ when he was not around. Admiral Acheri, a Terran-born man with an olive complexion, stood adjacent to him. Alim smiled at the eternal irony; Acheri hailed from the very land that Prospero drew its inspiration from. His bald pallet had a slight sheen from the sweat that was draining from his body. Alim nodded and rose from his seat. They were indeed through the worst of it, but there were still dangers in the Warp, and it would not do to be complacent.

"The command is yours, Acheri," he spoke before placing his helm upon his head. "Call me when we reach the jump point."

"Yes, Lord." Acheri bowed his head and took his seat. As the human gripped the rail before him, he found himself breathing a heavy sigh of relief, before beginning to co-ordinate with the Navigator. The last stage of the journey could hold as much terror as the main part. There were occasions when a vessel exited a jump gate to find themselves on a collision course with another ship.

He really did not want that on his conscience, and therefore began sending commands to ensure that the _Great Traveller_ would not endure such a fate. Because it would not - not on his watch and not in his lifetime.

Alim glanced over his shoulders and took in the men and women working on the command deck of his bridge. He knew their names and he knew their backgrounds, and if they were to die against the ferocity that was the World Eaters, then he would ensure they were remembered with pride. Right now, he had drills to oversee. Still, he was relieved that they were approaching Prospero, and prayed to no one in particular that the remainder of their journey would be without further incident.

* * *

The _Legend of D'seshara_ was like a shark cutting a path through tumultuous waters, focused not only on the prey ahead of her but on getting to join the great feeding frenzy. The honour her name carried was singular to the Captain of the 36th Company, who hailed from an Ice World of that name; they were on their way to return to D'seshara when they were rerouted to Prospero.

Captain Dietriech of the World Eater Strike Cruiser _Legend of D'seshara_ narrowed his eyes as he saw the Thousand Son vessel ahead of him. He clenched his fist and forced his breathing to slow; he could attack here, but this close to her, his vessel would get caught in the backwash and - and he wished damnation on those Word Bearer pansies, who had told the World Eater command staff that the Warp would work for them, in a blatant lie.

He stayed just out of the_ Great Journey_'s sensor range and closed his eyes as he pictured what he would do, once he was able to strike without risking his own vessel. This would not have ordinarily bothered him, but he wanted like nothing else to make the planet fall to Prospero and inflict death and destruction.

He bashed his head with his closed fist to stop the whispering voices that had been constant in his mind, ever since the conclave aboard the Primarch's vessel, the _Conqueror,_ where he had received modifications to the Nails. They were urging him to fire, to collect skulls for the great Skull Throne and draw blood for the mighty Blood God, even though the Nails were not whirring right now. Dietriech was slowly slipping into the second level of the madness that had beset his brothers, but he needed to remain focused.

None of the bridge crew dared utter any word to him; they had already heard what was happening to the human crew of other World Eater vessels who dared voice disquiet at their new orders. The World Eaters had always been violent in the way they carried out their battles, but they had treated their human crews with a modicum of respect. Now, they were liable to lash out at anyone that got on their nerves for the sake of it. Dietriech hated it, hated the second shift in the Legion, which would take it from the limit of control to a total lack of it. But there was nothing to do.

Sensor Officer Leraine Kelman nervously glanced over his shoulder and stammered, "L-Lord, there is another vessel behind us."

Dietriech slowly turned his gaze onto the quivering officer and arched a red eyebrow. "Is it another Thousand Son vessel or one of ours?"

"N – No, Lord."

"Well speak up and tell me who it is!" Dietriech roared, his already thin patience with the humans growing ever thinner. He gripped his axe, ready to dispatch himself of the annoying fly. Maybe then the voices would stop. (He knew that he was falling, to the doom that had engulfed his brothers. But he had known about the side effects before, had he not?)

Before the terrified Human could tell him, the _Legend_ was buffeted by the shock wave of an attack. Dietriech roared his anger and took the head off the unfortunate officer, for being too slow in answering him.

"You take that station," he pointed his bloody axe at another human, "and you tell me who it is that is attacking us!"

Quickly, the officer leant over Kelman's headless body and read the data.

"Lord, it is a vessel of the Space Wolves…the _Umbergora._"

A feral grin spread across Dietriech's face. This was not the mission, but the voices didn't care, and by this point neither did he. "Now we shall see who the most savage Legion really is. Turn us about, and let's meet her head on. The witches can wait."

The crew did as they were instructed.

* * *

"Lord, they are turning to face us." Olga Streniof, the Helmswoman of the _Umbergora_ scowled deeply as she read the screen below her eyes and then stared at the screen ahead of her. "Are they insane?"

Wolf Lord Anlaf sniggered, exposing his canines a little. "They are going to see which one of us is the better of the barbaric Legions. Vox - let the _Great Journey_ know that we have their back, and shall join them shortly. Inform them that, if the wyrd flows smoothly, we will dispense of Angron's war dogs before he even knows what is happening."

"Yes, my lord." The vox officer, a young man by the name of Scarek, immediately carried out his lord's orders.

"Sergeant Dragfinn."

"Captain?" The voice of his senior sergeant came over the intra-ship vox.

"Prepare to board, and be armed for bear."

The Sergeant chuckled at his Captain's lucky saying and acknowledged his order. Anlaf turned to Admiral Dag. "Bring her to within boarding distance."

"Yes Lord"

"Lord," Scarek turned, "the _Great Journey_ are asking if you require their assistance."

Anlaf snorted, his nose flaring at the mere thought of it, and his braided black hair moved vigorously. "The sons of Russ need no such assistance on this; we are allowing them the passage, to get to the jump point before Angron's puppies take them out. Tell him to carry on; the Rout shall take care of this impudent puppy and his litter."

He stopped by the doors that led off his bridge and saluted his bridge crew.

"May Russ guide your aim, gentlemen and ladies; and should we not all meet again, I will see you in the great wolf-halls, where we will break bread, eat meat, and drink mead until we are called to battle once more. But our foes, this day, are outmatched, and I believe we will meet once more before then. For Russ!"

"For Russ!" The crew roared and carried out their duties faster, with a renewed vigour that pleased the Space Wolf.

"Give them something to think about, Dag; give us the cover we require to get there without too much of a problem."

"By your command, Lord; and Lord?"

"Yes?"

"Russ is with you." Anlaf nodded briskly and stepped off the bridge.

* * *

Anlaf could barely believe what was happening. He had always believed that it would be the Rout that would take down the witches of Magnus, but here they were, working in harmony together. He did not like psykers who abused their powers. Their own Stormseers were respected, as they all took their power from Mother Fenris; they did not touch that which they were not meant to.

The Thousand Sons, whilst potent at what they did, did not know what the word 'stop' meant. Now, the ancient enmity between his father Leman Russ and his uncle Magnus seemed to have been buried. He wondered what must have happened between them for Russ to walk alongside his witch brother.

Indeed, he had seen the Cyclops on a number of occasions, and he was a terrifying figure when roused to war; but he had seen Magnus's weakness, knowledge, and that would be his downfall. The thing that caused a frown to crease the wolfish brow of Wolf Lord Anlaf was that, if The Rout knew this, then so might the Red Angel and his sons.

He kept his thoughts to himself for the moment, meeting his chosen warriors in the hangar bay. He directed them to their boarding pods and stared at the Dreadnaught that housed not only his company's champion, but his childhood friend: Enoch. Battle-Brother Loki Enoch had been cut down by the Eldar during the battle for Farogos Prime, but, in respect for the fact that his tactical acumen and his sheer charisma made him a mourned brother, the Wolf Priests had placed him in a Dreadnought, so that he would continue to serve the Emperor and the Legion.

"Enoch, old friend, are you ready for this?"  
_  
"I have my orders, Anlaf," _the dreadnought boomed. _"I wish I could go with you and see the hounds of Angron run like whipped puppies."  
_  
Anlaf rested his hand on the sarcophagus that housed his friend's remains. "In case they have the same idea, brother, I need you here to guide the new pups in the Company."

There was a murmuring from the Dreadnought which sounded like a begrudging agreement. _"Mother Fenris be with you, brother."_

"And Russ be with you, brother."

Enoch turned his massive frame to watch the chosen warriors of the 16th Company head for their boarding pods and wished them luck. Anlaf stopped midstride and turned to face Enoch.

"If we do not return, brother, destroy their ship, and join our kin at Prospero to avenge us."

The Dreadnought moved a little in acknowledgement and, turning, went to take his own post up. Several moments later, under a barrage of fire from the _Umbergora_, the assault pods launched and streaked towards the _Legend of D'seshara_.


	3. Chapter Two

The _Legend of D'seshara_ shuddered under the impact of the assault pods; suddenly, the once-quiet bridge was awake. Designated areas of the ship were being bombarded with Space Wolf attacks. They had managed to shoot some down, but not nearly enough; Captain Dietriech snarled his fury. It looked, more and more, like the incompetent fools on the bridge were not doing their jobs.

The first few salvos from the _Umbergora_ had taken out the Gellar field. This, in itself, was nothing, as it had already been leaking substance from the Warp into the vessel. He stormed through the engineering level, yelling at the humans to work faster; but already, some were screaming and seeking to tear their eyes out from what they were, apparently, seeing. It was so bad that he had to cut some of them down.

Merciful culls, he thought; but the more blood flowed from the end of his axe, the more he enjoyed it. Only he wanted more: not mere humans, but transhumans like him. His so-called 'savage' cousins of the Space Wolves would make for much more rewarding prey. Joining up with his warriors, he waited as madness whirled around them.

**++ Remember, brothers, the Gellar field is down, and that means that there will be madness. Trust your instincts ++** Wolf Lord Anlaf relayed through to his packmates in all the pods **++ this is for Russ and ….++** he paused before he spoke again **++our cousins in the Thousand Sons. ++**

His brothers looked at him for a moment, then placed their helms on their heads, just as their pod crashed into the side of the _Legend of D'seshara_. Sergeant Dragfinn kicked the hatch open and, with his Captain leading the charge, they emerged into the lower decks.

Humans were screaming in terror; some were backing away from things only they could see, waving their arms as if to ward off some evil beast from their worst nightmares. Both out of mercy and out of practicality, the Wolves ended their suffering. They relied on their own senses, ignoring the hairs on the back of their necks as an irritation to be forgotten. They made their way through the vessel, as reports came in from other Wolves that they had encountered World Eaters and battle had been joined.

Then, Dragfinn pulled Anlaf to one side, as a promethium burst came down the corridor and engulfed a fleeing human.

"Blood for the Blood God!" the World Eater roared.

Anlaf scowled deeply, wondering what madness had taken over his cousins, especially as he heard the same shout coming through his inter-squad vox feed.

**++ Ignore them, brothers; they are to be punished ++** he snarled. And with a roar to Mother Fenris and Russ, he charged head-on towards the World Eater.

Maybe it was the lighting, the red warning lights, but Anlaf could swear his adversary's armour was the colour of fresh blood with silver trim, not the blue and white it had been. His sword clashed with the World Eater, who he read was called - Klienstan.

He was horrified; this could not be the same Sergeant Klienstan that had fought alongside his men at the battle for Jerunisan Ridge! What a glorious battle that had been, sung by the company skalds for many a night. He could barely believe this was the same warrior, and his hearts ached to see such a barbaric change.

"Yusef," he tried reasoning with his cousin, "it is me, Hadran; put down your flamer, cousin, we can find an end to this without blood being spilt."

Klienstan pulled his helm off, and for a moment appeared to the Space Wolf to be the same oath-brother he had proudly fought alongside.

"You - you have no idea what has gone on, Hadran," Klienstan snarled, spittle and froth coming from his mouth like that of a rabid dog, "there is only blood and it drives me on."

"Yusef, this is madness, you must see that. Astartes do not fight Astartes, not like this!"

Klienstan banged his head against the walls of the corridor they were in. "I am sorry. The – the voices drive me, cousin, and they bay for your blood. And that is what I am going to give them."

Anlaf raised his bolter as his former cousin, his former blood-oathed brother, came towards him, and fired straight and true. The bolter shell split his head apart like a ripe melon, sending brains and matter over the walls and over Anlaf, who stared as the body toppled like a giant building and crashed to the deck. He watched the body for several more seconds, then nodded to himself. If this is what had befallen the World Eaters, even Klienstan himself, then the wyrd that drove this doom was mighty and grim indeed.

**++ Chosen sons of Russ, kill them, kill them all ++** he voxed and broke into a run.

* * *

Dietriech howled to the Blood God as he took the head of a young Space Wolf, whose name he neither knew nor cared about. He raised the dead Astarte's head above his own and let the blood flow over his face and his hair. It empowered him; and even the buffeting of the _Legend_ by the attacks from their blasted vessel could not stop him from killing their kind.

This was freedom, to no longer be held to brotherhood to those he found wanting; and he found these so-called savage wolves wanting. They had taken some of his brothers down, of that there was no doubt, but he had tested his own strength against the sons of Fenris and found little challenge. They were like a pack of wondering pups without their mighty father. The Wolves were nothing without Russ to wet nurse them; he was, meanwhile, a son of the mightiest gladiator to ever walk the universe. The sons of Angron needed no wet nursing: they were taught to stand on their own two feet and to fight to the death, on their own, from the very beginning.

He felt someone barge into his shoulder and stumbled forward to see Wolf Lord Anlaf, his face covered in blood and a snarl exposing his canines behind it. At last, the pack alpha; he was going to so enjoy this. Taking this skull would see his new god appeased, and the voices would stop to allow him to reach Prospero. He was already lost to the second corruption, and in the grip of the Nails as well; what was one more kill?

He glanced behind him to see the trail of bodies, human and Astartes, Space Wolf and World Eater, alike, leading from this room downwards. The blood was flowing like a river, and already the Space Wolf Apothecaries were carrying out their gory duties.

Dietriech seemed to remember the face of the Astarte before him and stepped back; yes, 'Wolf Lord' Hadran Anlaf, the Snow Wolf, so called for his prowess in the ices and frosty peaks of worlds he had conquered.

"Worthy opponents indeed; come, let us see how the mewling cubs of the Wolf King fare against the Hounds of the Red Angel!"

Anlaf shook his head and holstered his bolter; all around him there came news of the Wolves retreating back. At first he wondered why, then he heard the ship communications. The _Legend of D'seshara_ was grievously wounded, and Dragfinn had ordered the withdrawal.

"Eventually, Space Wolf, you will see the true way of things. You are defending the witches, the very witches that your father loathes!"

"Who gives you the right to hunt them down?" Anlaf snarled, his voice taking on a throaty growl.

"The Emperor, of course," Dietriech laughed, "he told us to bring them in and that is what we will do; all captured humans will go to feed his soul, and the Thousand Sons will fuel the Golden Throne. You, cousin, are on the wrong side."

Anlaf could not believe what he was hearing, The Rout were the chosen enforcers of the Emperor, not the World Eaters. But Dietriech believed what he was saying - had Angron lied to his Legion? He scowled a little and knew that he had to stop this madman; and if it meant his death, then so be it.

**++ Dragfinn, return to the Umbergora ++**

**++ Captain, what about you?! I will not leave you, sir! ++**

**++ That is an order; I have to stop this maniac. And if I don't, then all we have lost must not be for nothing. Should I not return to the vessel, she is yours until our father makes his decision. ++**

Dragfinn was silent for several moments; then, his voice respectful as ever, replied **++ For Russ ++**

Anlaf turned his attention to Dietriech and smiled threateningly. "Bring it on"

* * *

The battle between the two Captains was, indeed, a tale worthy of the skalds. They eschewed their weapons, each choosing to fight bare handed; the respective honours of their own Legions were at stake, and this test would prove which one was the more ferocious.

Dietriech was covered in blood from his broken nose and ruptured eye; but instead of weakening him, the injuries drove him onwards, making him stronger. And in one brief opening, he ripped Anlaf's left hand from his wrist. The Snow Wolf howled his pain; and, as quickly as he felt it, the Laramen cells began to stem the flow of blood and the painkillers went into overdrive.

But he was not down and he was certainly not out; even with one hand, he was still a fighter and still a son of Russ. He charged Dietriech and bashed him into the wall, causing a deep indentation in the shape of the World Eater. He drove a raised knee into the World Eater's stomach and, with his right hand, he made an upper cut that snapped Dietrich's jaw bone.

He held onto the stump of his other hand, and with both, he bashed Dietriech across the face, cracking more of his face. Dietriech fell to the floor, spitting goblets of blood; the Nails were beginning to fade, but the voices were not. They did, however, descend into an incomprehensible cacophony. Defiantly, Dietriech turned to face Anlaf and smiled crookedly. "Is that all you have, crippled wolf?"

With a roar born from the very valley that he had begun his life in, Anlaf leapt into the air and landed square on the back of the World Eater, cracking his armour and his spine. Anlaf grabbed the head and pounded it into the floor, locking his arm around his opponent's neck.

"The Emperor would never order such a thing," he snarled into the ear of the World Eater captain. "This is just your insane master, doing his own thing."

"Believe it if you want to, Wolf, but we do what the Emperor orders," Dietriech whispered with the remainder of his breath.

With a roar, Anlaf twisted Dietriech's neck until it snapped, after which he dropped it to the floor. He fell back onto his haunches, only to be lifted up; he turned to see Dragfinn and Apothecary Justan to either side of him.

"I told you to get off the ship," he snarled.

"Sorry, Captain; I had the urge to come back and see if your sorry arse needed saving."

"Which," Justan grinned, "it did not, but the 16th Company need their Alpha; we are not ready for a new one yet."

Anlaf began to feel weak from his injuries and let himself go limp so they could half-carry and half-walk him.

"When I get out of here, I think I am going to get laid," he muttered, causing both Wolves with him to snigger.

"You might want to get cleaned up first, Captain - no she-wolf would touch you," Justan chuckled.

It was an old joke from the days the three men were Blood Claws, not yet full Astartes and still with some human instincts. It was one that Justan was happy to hear and play along with.

* * *

The _Legend of D'seshara_ was dead in space and, as the _Umbergora_ turned to fire upon her once more, she exploded of her own wounds. Dragfinn, on the bridge in place of his wounded Wolf Lord, watched in satisfaction as the World Eater vessel vanished.

Their dead had been retrieved and their Canis Helices removed, as well as the gene-seed, ready to be born with pride back to the Fang so that a new batch of recruits would enter the service of the Father of Wolves.

But Dragfinn was far from content. Anlaf had told him what had been said to him, and unlike his captain he believed it; and as the _Umbergora_ emerged from the jump point, he began to wonder just how mad the Imperium was going.

He would soon find out.


	4. Chapter Three

Prospero was a world of psykers and not much else; the planet was fraught with dangers that would have made most normal men balk at the thought of living there. That was, indeed, why the psyker colony had been founded there in the first place - Prospero was a place no one wanted to look. Modern Prospero was the legacy of this refugee past, but the often-used nickname 'World of Witches and Warlocks' actually only conveyed half the truth. For Tizca, the lone city on the whole of the planet, was also the source of much of the Imperium's knowledge. Scholars from Prospero were in demand amongst the universities of the Imperium. And aside from being the home of knowledge and power, it was the homeworld of a Legion, one that had been blighted by tragedy since their inception; but more than that, it was the homeworld of a Primarch.

To young, newly created Astarte Apheru Apries of the newly created 33rd Fellowship, it was the most beautiful world in the Imperium. He had few psychic powers; not all the Thousand Sons were powerful sorcerers. The majority of their commanders and leaders were, of course, but that was part of why they were the commanders. Apries was, himself, technically a member of the Athanaean cult; his powers, however, were mostly limited to detecting other psychic abilities, a useful skill but not incredibly so. He had been on two battlefields, and the last, on the world of Parvinia, had seen him elevated to full Astarte; now he wore the red of his Legion with pride.

He took in the view over Tizca, her white marble buildings all topped with spires, which seemed to touch the skies of Prospero. Aside from the psychneuein, the only thing a native of Prospero feared was the loss of knowledge; and as his gaze turned to the Great Pyramid, he was reminded of stories that his scholars had relayed to him, about the mysterious pyramids on Mandragora. He often wondered if the ancient civilisation that built them, about which nothing was known, was anything like the people of Prospero.

He looked up into the sky and smiled to himself; soon, their father would be home, and soon they would once more be off, gaining more knowledge for the benefit of mankind and the Imperium.

And then, suddenly, he felt the message, sent psychically over the distances of interstellar space; and though he felt no fear, he still shivered, from imagined cold.

**+++ Prepare defenses. Angron is coming, to raze Prospero to the ground. +++**

* * *

The Photep roared into real space, the sparks settling along her as she adjusted to the dimensional change. The Thousand Sons aboard her prayed to the fates that they were going to arrive in time to save their home world and their brothers. Leman Russ stood beside his brother Magnus on the bridge. It was a sight that was indeed unusual: seeing two Primarcs together was a wondrous enough sight, but these two rarely stood with each other for reasons other than the galaxy's size.

The great and mighty Wolf King, the greatest son of Fenris, was legendary for his savagery in battle, but also known as the Emperor's Punisher, the one who tore rebellions apart. This powerhouse and never-ending vessel of violence stood alongside the Crimson King, the only Primarch that shared his father's diversity of psyker powers. All of the Primarchs had psyker abilities to some degree, of course. Curze and Sanguinius had their visions, and Lorgar his combat powers. None of them, however, used their abilities in as extensive a way as Magnus, and Russ disliked his ways, so distant from his own Stormseers. Magnus, meanwhile, respected Russ as a warrior but was not fond of his attitude towards knowledge.

So to many this would have been a bizarre and surreal partnership, a month ago; but, perhaps precisely because of their apathy towards Magnus's Legion, the Space Wolves were best suited to deal with this. Already, other Space Wolf and Thousand Son vessels were translating behind them, and as they did so they fell into formation behind the _Photep_ and the _Hrafnkel_ like pups behind their parents.

Magnus glanced at his brother as realspace became a settled ocean around them. Russ had said relatively little since he had transferred across, prior to entering the Warp. His mind was still whirling with the idea that their father had been corrupted so completely. Magnus could understand that; but he had a number of tasks, and the first of them was to save his world. Though there were other things that could help the remaining Primarchs, and he had to consider them as well; certainly, Horus's renegades needed all the help they could get.

Something else played in Magnus's mind, though, and he moved closer to his wolfish brother. "Leman, I require an oath of you."

Russ arched an eyebrow and turned his fearsome features to his red-skinned, one-eyed brother. "Which is?"

Magnus looked away for a moment and swallowed hard, then returned his gaze to his brother. "If anything happens to me, if Angron…."

"Nothing will happen to you, Magnus, you are a Primarch," Russ said with finality.

"Don't be a fool, Leman; I know you are not, so please credit me with some intelligence." There was a slight snarl buried deep in the Wolf King's throat, but he said nothing, so Magnus continued. "We both know that Angron is capable of anything, brother; the fates alone knew what was done to him on Nuceria to turn him into that seething mass of rage and hate, but it has made him a better fighter, one on one, than myself, and possibly even than you."

Russ nodded a little; he, too, had wondered what hardships his brother had endured at the hands of the old slavemasters that had turned him into something both less and more than what had been laid out for him. He also remembered the brawl on the Night of the Wolf (as well as that other, unspeakable campaign), and though that fight had been far from over, it was one of very few that he wasn't sure he would have won. He had heard the stories of how the Red Angel had killed some of his own sons when the Emperor had left him in their care, and that it was Kharn that had brought him around, hence why Kharn was his favoured son.

"There is a chance that he could kill me, and if he does - I want you to promise me that you will find a home for my sons and my people, if Prospero is rendered uninhabitable."

The Wolf King's heavy brow furrowed deeply, making him appear more like his namesake then a son of the Emperor. "And just where would I take your people and your sons? The Fenris system is crowded enough with a single Astarte Legion!"

"There is a world in the Yvegona Cluster; it is habitable and would suit the needs of my sons and my people," Magnus calmly cut his brother off.

Russ turned side-on to face his brother. "Do you mean Kegara? Magnus, that world is littered with creatures worse then those psychneuein that Prospero faces. We took that world together, brother; the only civilisation there was long gone, and we faced superstitious nomads."

Magnus suppressed a smile; when it came to superstitious nomads, there were none more so then the people of Fenris. Instead he nodded a little. "It is climatically and psychically ideal for my people, and they are tougher than you give them credit for. And I do not want my sons to die out because I am no longer here."

Russ rubbed his jaw with his massive paw and then scratched his chin. "**If** it happens, then I will see to the re-settlement; but it won't happen."

"Oh, and how can you be so sure, Wolf King?!" Magnus's patience was normally endless, but right now, with Prospero on the verge of destruction, it was severely frayed.

"Because if you die, Crimson King, when we have to fight the Emperor - no one else has the abilities that you do, to defeat him on the psychic level," Russ calmly spoke, seemingly ignoring his brother's tone, "and so I will not let that happen. For if you do pass beyond the veil, we will be doomed if Father hits us with his full power."

Magnus was shocked at Russ's words. The great Leman Russ, the scourge of all psykers and their ilk, had actually left him speechless. He turned his head to look down at the command pulpit.

"How long until we reach Prospero, Admiral?"

"Seventeen and a half hours, Lords," Admiral Artames replied, bowing his head.

"Then we are in the psychic bright spot; if we're lucky, the astropathic message can travel back in time. Have the Choir warn Prospero, and pray that we are not too late."

Magnus clenched his fists and closed his eye; it would be a while before he was ready to send warning to his sons himself, so tiring was applying the Warp jet, but with any luck they might just reach the system before Angron and his devil dogs. Russ saw the intent on his brother's face and read it perfectly, but said nothing. After all, he doubted they would get to Prospero before Angron; all he could hope for was that the Red Angel had not done too much damage before they arrived.

* * *

The world was there for him and his sons to take. He watched as Prospero began to appear closer on his screen; just a few more hours, and then they would be within reach of this haven of witches. He had no patience for sorcerers, and was coming to the conclusion that they should all be exterminated as blights upon true war. But his father had plans for his wayward brother, and who was he to disrupt his father's plans?

Angron had never been close to his father; just like Curze, he had been seen as a disloyal destroyer worthy only of bringing the Imperium's wrath on particularly stubborn humans' heads. But now, they had a chance to prove themselves as more then just fearsome beings to humans: they could prove themselves against fellow Astartes, and he would be able to prove to Magnus that it was not Russ he should fear, but him, the Red Angel, the War Dog himself.

Angron tried to calm his churning mind, as all he could currently picture was streets that flowed with rivers of blood and bodies. Their heads were removed and sat at the feet of a great brass throne, atop which sat a mighty warrior encased in bronze armour. Angron had been drawn to him for his warrior-honour; there was no other god that would accept the loyalty of one such as Angron. This was a god who held bravery in incredibly wide regard, and who despised cowardice to the extent that, within the his great fortress, there burned a great pit where the souls of many cowards, and others who had fled in the face of battle, burned for eternity in torment.

Angron had ingenious ways of dealing with cowards, too, but he tended to respect those that fought against them when the outcome was hopeless. He forced his ever-clouding mind to focus on the job at hand. He would not only destroy this world; he would scour it, then leave it a barren rock, a mighty testament to his sons and his own victory over Astartes who dared to think of themselves as scholars. The Thousand Sons were made for war and conquest, not knowledge-gathering; that was the realm of humans, not warriors.

He would enjoy proving to all his brothers that he was more then capable of doing as his father wanted, with no qualms that it was a brother's home he was ending. He would love to take apart his brother Fulgrim's boys, likewise, but rebuild them, teach them the meaning of cutting the braid, of true honour and martial prowess. The thoughts churning in his head made a rare smile crease his warlike visage, and he even uttered a chuckle, which got some nervous glances from the humans on his bridge.

"Forgive me, Lord, is something amusing?" Master Ferran asked, causing his second-in-command to shake his head vigorously, as if to tell him to shut up.

Kharn, who was never far from his father, cocked his head to one side; the Master was bold, that was certain. Angron turned his fearsome visage to the newly appointed Master of his vessel and got up.

"You would ask your betters what they find amusing?" Angron asked.

"It is good to see you laugh, my lord," Ferran continued, suddenly wishing he had not said anything. "I was just curious; my apologies."

Angron rested a giant hand on his shoulder and looked around him, as the secondary buzz in his mind died slightly down. "No doubt you were all thinking the same; and yet only the Master had the stones to ask me. I was laughing, my friend, at how this will change things, not just for my World Eaters but for you all. We will become the Legion that brings the Emperor's justice to those who would not heed his words."

Ferran heaved a palatable sigh of relief. "We are coming to the dark side of Prospero, Lord; what are your orders?"

"Are all my sons in the system?"

"We lost contact with the _Legend of D'seshara_, Lord, but that could be the Warp interference," Ferran explained.

"Retake your seat, Master, worry not, for I am in a good mood." That much was certainly true, right now. He hoped it would continue. Angron of Nuceria, Lord of the Red Sands, leant forward and moved his gigantic head to the Master's ear. "The fact you have stood up to me before has kept you alive. I like you, Master Urgara Ferran; when we are on Prospero's soil, ensure that my vessel leads in the destruction of those witches, and I shall not forget the service. Fail me, and my like of you shall vanish"

Ferran nodded slightly, totally understanding what his Lord was saying. Angron stood straighter. "Soon, my mortal sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, we shall write a new legacy. This day is the dawn of the World Eaters. It's time that Magnus's witches learnt _that_."


	5. Chapter Four

As soon as Magnus's message reached the spires of the Great Pyramid, the Legion's commanders began organising not just a battle front, but the evacuation of the population into the Pyramid and the safe transport off-planet of all Prosperine-endemic knowledge. This would take hours, but hopefully it could be done in time for their father and his allies to get here, before the World Eaters.

As twilight faded to night, however, it became apparent there would not be enough time to save everything. The skies filled with drop pods that came to Prospero's ground like torpedoes; from the cosmos above, missiles and blasts sprouted, firing at strategic watch posts around the city's outer limits. Brother Apries followed his sergeant as the squad went to aid the Spireguard in their job of evacuating the schools.

Surely there had been some mistake, surely the sons of Angron had been told to test the sons of Magnus? Apries had hoped so, when the order came down from the mouth of the Primarch himself - that it was all an organised test of the Thousand Sons' battle-worthiness. But, as he looked up and saw the trails in the skies, he knew that this was no test, nothing less than real battle in all its glory and horror; the explosions of the watch towers told him as much, even before he saw Spireguard falling to their deaths.

**"Squad Anubis, form up!"** Sergeant Ra-Baka bellowed. **"Captain, my men will cover you until you get those children and their tutors to the safety of the Pyramid. Make it quick; Angron and his puppies are not know for their patience, or their discretion."**

Atlem, the Captain of the 33rd Fellowship, bowed quickly and began barking orders to his other men, to follow the sergeant's plan. Apries noted how efficiently the Spireguard worked. They were perfectly loyal to their father, just like they were to the Astartes that made up the Thousand Sons, but Apries believed they would not need babysitting, that he and his brothers could focus on other things.  
**  
"Have you ever seen a World Eater, Apries?"** the brother to his left whispered as he swung his Bolter left to right and back again.

**"No, Senbu, I have not,"** Apries replied. **"I have seen the sons of Russ in action, though; are they not largely similar?"**

**"Oh trust me, brothers,"** Sergeant Ra-Baka's voice cut across their conversation, the battle-brothers turning to find their commander behind them, **"there is a lot of difference between the Wolves of Fenris and the War Hounds of Angron."**

"**Contact in fifteen kilometres… by the Great Ocean,**" Brother Uahbras's voice exclaimed in shock.

Squad Anubis saw them and knew this was real. A squad of World Eaters, their distinctive blue and white armour standing out in the light, made their way across the ground towards the Thousand Sons. Ra-Baka took a moment to assess the situation and knew that, unless there was a miracle, not all of them would walk out of this alive. It was a shame that three of his squad were new to Astarte flesh and blood; still, they would fight, and they would show these traitors that the sons of Magnus were not to be underestimated.

He bellowed to the Spireguard to leave now; he knew they were not afraid of the World Eaters (at least not yet), they were soldiers, but the civilians were and had every right to be. To get them to safety was the Spireguard's priority, along with that of the Captain, and holding off the World Eaters was his; and if his squad was to be the first of many to wage battle across this mighty city, then so be it. The news of the Emperor's change of heart and of his command to ruin Prospero had filtered through many in the Thousand Sons' leadership; the First Captain himself had sent word that they now fought for Horus _against_ the Emperor. Ra-Baka had found this hard to believe at first, but he would not dispute the words of the First Captain; after all, he spoke for Magnus himself, and if this was the way it was, then he would always fight for his Primarch - and his home.  
**  
"For Magnus and sacred Prospero!**" he bellowed.

_**"For Magnus and sacred Prospero!"**_ his squad returned the shout, as they readied themselves.

* * *

Sergeant Deziel Afonsei of the World Eaters 14th Company could see the Thousand Sons up ahead, defending what appeared to be a building. He doubted it was of any strategic importance, but nevertheless he had his orders. He stopped for a moment, and his squad stopped around him. Their revised cortical implants were already beginning to tap into their brains. He could feel the violence surge around him in his squad, as well as in his own emotions. If he had not had these implants, Afonsei contemplated, he might have focused on some sort of wrong in what he and his brothers were about to do; however, in any case, they had their orders, given to them from both the Primarch himself and the Emperor, so he would have done his duty no matter what.

He had heard others say that the Thousand Sons were not true warriors, that they were witches and knowledge seekers, without the fighting spirit needed to be an Astarte. But, unlike some of his brethren, he was not about to discount the fact that they could fight. Not all the Thousand Sons were powerful psykers, and those that were fought just as hard and as ferociously as those that weren't, but with the added strength of their abilities. He sniffed the air and pulled a disgusted face; the stench of psyker was in the air. Despite the Nikaea Edict they still reeked of it. Their Primarch would be taken in chains to the Emperor, and some of his inner circle; but few of the Thousand Sons needed to be left alive, and he needed first blood.

**"Squad Tungus… let's show these witches how we make war!**" he roared to his squadmates, before pulling his chain axe; up close and personal was the way a World Eater fought, and these Witches would learn that.

* * *

Ra-Baka roared at his men to fire their bolters and make every shot count; he did not want the World Eaters coming too close. He had studied their tactics and knew all too well that they preferred close-quarters combat; once they got into that range, the battle would become bloody and messy, and this was what the enemy wanted.

He raised his bolter and hesitated, for a split second, as he saw the World Eater Sergeant remove his helm to reveal a face so disfigured by the thrill of the hunt that Ra-Baka thought, for one awful half-moment, that he was looking at a demon. He may not have ranked in the upper echelons of his Legion but he recognised berserkers when he saw them. He sighted his target and fired; the bolter seemed to show the trail it would take, to Ra-Baka's seemingly weakened Corvidae powers, but at the last moment Afonsei moved to one side and it took down a World Eater behind him. It was as if the traitor had seen it coming, which was impossible; he had no more time to contemplate this, however, as - with a howl that sounded like a malevolent entity in the Great Ocean - the remaining World Eaters were among Squad Anubis, and all thoughts of coordinated suppressing fire vanished.

Senbu drew his gladius and ducked under the whirring chain blade of a World Eater who, according to his visor's scanners, was named Czernobog. He could smell the heat of the World Eater's breath as he bore down on the Thousand Son; it smelled like the dead. He raised his left foot and threw the World Eater over his head, but the son of Angron was faster and landed like a cat, on his feet, and before Senbu could get to his feet his head was grabbed.

The pain was excruciating as giant hands grabbed his visor and tore it off, taking some of his skin with it. Already, his Laraman cells were starting to work on healing the wounds, but Czernobog was not done yet; as Senbu attempted to get his bearing, he was punched. He wondered for a moment if the pain was too strong, but as he looked down, the World Eater had punched him alright - clear through his armour, deep into his chest. What did Angron feed his warriors that they were able to do this? Senbu raised his head to meet the insane glare of the World Eater and knew he was dead; the Astarte's eyes told him that much, even with his Athanae abilities weakened for unclear reasons.

He began to laugh. "This is not going to stop us, World Eater; we are Thousand Sons, and we will endure."

Czernobog correctly assumed he was being made a mockery of, and with a roar, he pulled the still-beating secondary heart from the Thousand Son. Czarnobog watched as he fell to his knees, the shock and trauma sending his body into spasmic overload, and - drawing his chainsword back - he cut the head from the body. He picked the head up by the topknot and held it aloft.  
**  
"Blood for the blood god, skulls for the skull throne, victory for Angron!"** he roared.

"Think again!" another voice growled, and as Czernobog turned, Apries fired his Bolter directly into the World Eater's face, destroying it completely and covering his own armour in the blood of the deranged traitor.

He glanced down at his dead brother and stood over the body firing, lest any more of those maniacs decided to try and defile it; but what bothered him the most, aside from the brutality of these so-called Astartes, was who Czernobog had been chanting to - and why?

* * *

With the ferocity of the attack, and despite killing on both sides, neither the remaining Thousand Sons nor the World Eaters were going to give up their perceived victories. Both sides fought for an Imperial Truth, one bright yet outdated, the other direct but mad. One side fought to conquer a world and bring it to heel, even if they had to destroy it; the other fought to save their world and stop the hordes from taking the one planet that had, for so long, been a safe haven for them against mistrust, envy, and attempts to bring them under the heel of others' superstitions regarding the majority of the populace and the Astartes of this world.

Brother Sam-Ta and Brother Salatis stood back to back against their attackers. Salatis's flamer was already spent, and his Pyrae powers, though still potent, seemed to work only in fits and starts. He held his bolter and, having heard Senbu's dying words over the vox, took them to heart; there would be other battles for their brothers to fight. But if they could just hold out against this batch of unnaturally strong berserkers, well, it would be a tale to tell the Legion scribes.

Salatis threw his bolter down as the last bolt flew from it and impacted against a World Eater's chest, sending him falling to the ground (though likely still alive). He drew his sword and readied himself, activating the power field around it. Like Sam-Ta, his helm had been damaged earlier on in the fight; they were both fighting bareheaded. He felt something splash the back of his neck and turned a nudge to see, with peripheral vision, the headless corpse of Sam-Ta waver like a karetisk who did not realise its head was cut off; then, it fell to the ground. With a roar, he lunged at the World Eater responsible, an Astarte that had earlier been identified as Brother Rolan.

Rolan dodged the attack, and brought the hilt of his axe straight onto the sword arm of Salatis, who roared as the pain registered; already, his physiology was rushing pain suppressants to the broken bone. He swayed out of the way in time to dodge an attack that would have cleaved him in two; these World Eaters were stronger then he remembered them being. Then, seeing the implants in Rolan's head, he realised that the World Eater's cortical implants were making him senseless to pain - and perhaps, as Apries had suggested, for the psychic dampening, which would at last provide an explanation for that massive disadvantage. He had been under the impression that they had been told to stop this, but then again, with what he had heard he could guess that Angron never listened anyway.

He had to find a way to stay alive long enough, to give him room to strike; already he felt his Pyrae connection begin to sizzle into reality. Rolan, however, was not going to give him that chance; the berserker just kept coming at him, taking swipes at his armour; most connected, though some did not, and a fraction of a glance behind him told Salatis the problems were not limited to him. He could see that there were not many more of Squad Anubis left, and he had a sinking feeling that this would be his world's fate (though, fortuitously for once, he was no Corvidae). He was knocked onto his back and tried to move his good arm up, to block the blow that was coming from the frenzied World Eater and to channel the flame that was erupting from his mind; instead, the body was cleaved in two and fell in bloody halves to either side of the Thousand Son; a grey gauntlet was shoved in his face and a wolfish face appeared before him.

"Do you require aid – Cousin?" The Astarte asked.

Salatis laughed, with relief more then anything else; he had never thought he would be so happy to see a son of Russ. He took the offered hand and was pulled to his feet.

"Your arm…" the Space Wolf motioned to the broken arm.

"The Pavoni will heal it, and for now I have another." Salatis picked his sword up. "Who do I have to thank for this?"

"I am Brother Galthar Halfdnar." The Space Wolf nodded at him. "We can do the rest late; time to show these traitors how not to treat another's home world."

Salatis did not argue; and it was only then that he saw other Space Wolves enter the battle. And for the first time, he praised the sons of Russ for their timely arrival.

And then, he extended his sword, and a golden star slammed into the insane traitors.

* * *

Sergeant Ra-Baka had already lost his left hand to Afonsei's chainaxe, and he would have lost another, had it not been for the poleaxe that erupted from the chest of the World Eater Sergeant. In shock, he looked up to see another face, in the livery of a Space Wolf Sergeant. He was helped up and looked around as the Space Wolves and the remaining five Thousand Sons - himself, Apries, Uahbras, Salatis, Ephasto - finished off the remaining World Eaters.

"I am Sergeant Njal; we have come to aid you, cousin." Njal was as any Space Wolf; his mouth parted to show the fangs that all Wolves had, but for once it did not send a shiver of anticipation through Ra-Baka - only relief.

"Never thought I would be so glad to see you, cousin." Ra-Baka sat himself down as the Space Wolves' Apothecary saw to his hand. "I was not under the impression that there were any of… the Rout here?"

He used the real name for the Sons of Fenris, and it seemed to be accepted as it was meant, honour to the saviours. Njal sat down beside Ra-Baka as his Apothecary took the gene-seed of the dead Thousand Sons, so it could be returned to their Legion. All of Squad Anubis' Pavoni were dead, having been cut to pieces by World Eaters; Njal had ordered his Apothecary, Brother Njord, to take care of them in particular, though Ra-Baka knew that was a needless gesture. The Thousand Sons had a good balance of their Cults.

"We were first to reach Prospero; we were ordered to make planetfall, and do what we could until our Primarchs get here."

"Russ and Magnus together?" Ra-Baka was genuinely surprised. Njal chuckled a little.

"Aye, Cousin, we fight as one. You, however, need medical attention, and I doubt you would be able to return to the Great Pyramid without encountering more of these bastards; so we will come with you."

"Thank you, cousin; I owe you mine and my squad's lives, and I will find a way to repay the debt. I do not forget such things."

"I am sure that in the coming days, cousin, there will be ample time to honour that."

Ra-Bakas did not doubt it; with the World Eaters' new strength, this war was going to be bloody, that much was certain.

* * *

By the time Squad Anubis and Squad Val had reached the Great Pyramid, they had joined up with other Thousand Son units, many of which had also been aided by the Space Wolves. Njal remained with Ra-Baka, having encountered smaller skirmishes along the way. A strange sense of trust had built up between both sergeants and their respective Squads.

Captain Atlem of the 33rd Fellowship met with Wolf Lord Djarl of the 19th Great Company. They nodded respectfully to each other and withdrew from earshot of the Spireguard, who were defending the roadway leading to the center of the Thousand Sons' home.

"Perhaps, Captain, you would be so good as to tell me - what in the name of the Crimson King is going on here?" Atlem asked when both men were alone.

Djarl noticed that Atlem's gaze was forever on the horizon. He was not snubbing him; he was watching for the approaching enemy. They had already heard that the World Eaters had taken some of the outer districts, and the casualty list had been horrendous. Even one as violent as Djarl had been shocked when one of his Blood Claws had reported what had happened not only to the Astartes that were there, but the civilians too.

The Astartes - both Thousand Sons from the 25th Fellowship's Squads Ositaris and Isois and the Rout of Squad Freygor, including one of his own best Sergeants, had been killed and their heads taken, to be placed in the centre of that small neighborhood piled high; their bodies had been ripped asunder, as if mad animals had been let loose on them and the humans they had been defending.

"I can tell you what I know." Djarl joined Atlem and watched the horizon himself. "It seems that the Emperor has forsaken his old plans and decreed that the Imperial truth is a lie, and that there are gods."

Atlem arched a dark eyebrow. "But – he has always despised ideology of any kind, look at what he did to Lorgar's sons when they refused to give up the idea he was a god! Now you are telling me that he has just suddenly decided to embrace faith?" His voice was incredulous, and Djarl did not blame him for being so shocked.

When news had filtered through the Rout of the truth of the matter, the Wolves had too been in a state of disbelief. He waited for the news to sink in; then, as much as he disliked the notion, continued with what he knew.

"It seems, from what my father has said to us, that Lorgar, Curze, Angron, Fulgrim, Manus, Vulkan and Dorn have fully joined the new Imperial Creed. Mars was overrun by the Iron Hands, and Ferrus Manus now sits in judgment on it. Curze and his Legion killed an entire government and planet personally, in the name of the Emperor. Angron and Vulkan gunned down those of their own sons who would not follow the new order. And Rogal Dorn destroyed an entire loyal world, via Exterminatus, for not immediately handing over a religious relic."

Djarl watched the gradating shock on the Thousand Sons Captain's face; and when he told him of the Great Salamander's and the Praetorian's actions, he had to steady his fellow Astarte, who looked like he might faint from the shock.

"And we have angered the Emperor. Is that why he has sent Angron's blood-mad sons to our world?" Atlem whispered, realisation slowly dawning on him. He still did not understand how the Nails suddenly gained the ability to dull psychic powers, but perhaps they had always had that - it wasn't as if the Twelfth and Fifteenth Legions had frequently fought together.

"It is. It would seem that the Cycl - Crimson King refused to heed an order from the Emperor to return to Terra, and this is his punishment," Djarl corrected himself, as it did not seem appropriate to call the lord of Prospero by his less savoury nickname, in these circumstances.

"Then we will defend this world until my father returns. He is not far now, and all we can do is hold the murdering bastards at bay until he arrives." Atlem rubbed his brow.

"My father is by his side."

"This I know, Cousin." Atlem uttered something that sounded like a cynical chuckle.

"Something I said amusing you, cousin?" Djarl asked.

"Cousin, does this not seem a little ironic to you?" Atlem saw the blank expression on the Space Wolf's face and continued. "Well, considering that our two Legions have never seen eye to eye, that it is Russ who comes to aid us in this darkest hour, and both Legions against an Emperor we were entirely loyal to..."

Djarl nodded, conceding the Thousand Son's point; everyone in all the Legions had predicted that the Emperor would unleash the sons of Fenris on the sons of Prospero if they continued the path of forsaken sorcery after Nikaea, and none in his Company were more surprised then he was when the news had come that Russ and Magnus stood side by side.

"They will be here shortly; all we can do, Cousin, is hold, and you have us to aid you." Djarl clasped his giant hands behind his back. "We will hold them off for as long as we can; and with the fates willing, that will be enough until Russ and Magnus arrive."

"There is one slight flaw there, Cousin," Atlem dryly spoke and met Djarl's enquiring gaze. "We need to hope that Angron has not made planetfall yet."

Djarl's jaw set tight and his ice-blue eyes hardened. "Even if he has, Cousin, then we will die fighting him; but know that we will defend this city of yours, no matter who they send against us."

Atlem held his hand out. "I am Osirian Atlem; my friends call me Rian in informal times."

Djarl looked for a moment, then took the hand in the warrior's grip. "I am Siegfried Djarl, and when this is over we shall drink and feast to the victory of our fathers… Rian."

"I will hold you to that, Siegfried."

"Good; now let's see what else we need to do here, to fortify this roadway."

The two Captains began to walk the defensive lines, speaking words of encouragement to the human defenders; and Atlem was proud to be beside the Space Wolf, at this moment, and happy that Djarl added words of encouragement to the Spireguard warriors, even if they were blunt and to the point.

* * *

Sergeant Hofkyier and Sergeant Aken had met up in the district of Jeriz, a small township that housed many of the city's manual workers. The Space Wolves of Squad Ulas had been battling the World Eaters of the 23rd Company, and it had not been pretty. Everyone knew how savage the Rout was, but when they met the even more violent World Eaters, it was like the beginnings of the foretold Wolftime.

By the time the Thousand Sons of Squad Basther, 36th Fellowship, had gotten to the district, the blood was flowing like a river. It was not just the ferocity of this specific battle; this was also cousin against cousin, Astartes against Astartes, something that had been thought impossible. Aken immediately ordered his men to cover the Space Wolves and, almost instantly, launched into the battle.

Hofkyier nodded his thanks to the Thousand Sons' sergeant as he was hauled to his feet.

**"My thanks, Cousin."**  
**  
"You have taken a few of the bastards down, then,"** Aken laughed.  
**  
"We will take more, that I promise you, Cousin."**

The two sergeants chuckled a little; and then a sound that chilled even the mighty Space Wolves to the bone erupted from the horizon.

It was like a caged animal, maddened by its captivity; but thousands of times more feral than even that. Both Sergeants heard and felt the change in the air. It was the overwhelming feeling that an Astartes only got when near a demi-god. Some of the Spireguard that were fighting alongside the Space Wolves suddenly and quite violently threw up.

The other Astartes began to move back into defensive postures; and it was then that they saw him. Rising tall on the battlefield like some mighty demon of ancient Terran mythology, his golden armour shone, as if he had been polishing it himself, to its highest sheen, while the red looked like liquid blood; his war cry loosened human bladders. The two sergeants shared a glance with each other, and both knew this was one fight they would not win - none of them would, for it was one thing fighting against cousin Astartes, but this…. Aken called his youngest squad member over.

**"Sergeant." **The young Thousand Son stood ramrod straight.

**"Tuthos, I want you to go back to the Great Pyramid, stop for nothing, we have no vox contact with the Pyramid and I need them to know what we have seen," **Aken ordered, as calmly as he could.  
**  
"Yvor,"** Hofkyier called, **"Go with him; in case anything happens to one of you, the other should continue on."**

**"Yes, Sergeant."**

**"Be sure that you tell them we fell defending this part of Tizca,"** the grizzled Space Wolf told them both, **"on this day when Space Wolf and Thousand Son took on the World Eaters."  
**  
The roar erupted again, closer this time, and they thought they could see the twin axes the giant was infamous for.  
**  
"Tell them we fought the Red Angel himself, tell them that Angron is here,"** Aken quietly spoke and said no more. He rejoined his men as the two Astartes made their way back towards the main city; and behind them, they heard Angron's shout.

**"For the Emperor, blood for the blood god!"**

How many times had it been said that this was impossibility? How many times had the Legions' hierarchy - and indeed the Primarchs themselves - said this could never happen, such was the discipline and the ties of brotherhood between the Astartes and their fathers? Well, to both Aken and Hofkyier, unless this was a very bad dream or hypno test, the impossible had become extremely possible. The twin axes of the Primarch of the World Eaters sung in bloody battle, cutting bodies of Thousand Sons and Space Wolves in equal measure; he did not care that they were his brothers' sons, just like Prospero's defenders did not (by this point) care that they were killing their cousins, all he cared about was proving his father had finally seen sense. At last he had a challenge, a real challenge that he could get his teeth into and his blood flowing.

The Astartes that fell before him were admirable warriors; and as a warrior, he acknowledged that they would fight for what they saw as the correct way of things. When someone fought as hard as they did, then one did not take that away from them; they deserved the noble deaths they were facing, and he saluted that as only a true warrior would. However, his nephews - misguided - needed to learn that the Emperor's word was law, and he was the one to enact the Emperor's justice. Him, the great Red Angel, the mighty War Hound, the Last Son of Nuceria: these and other names that he had been called were forged in the crucible of battle, and it irked him that his brothers were not here, that their sons were dying in their place. It enforced his opinion that Russ and Magnus had no capacity for timeliness. The new order had been set, and he was now the foremost god of violence.

Aken and Hofkyier moved back as the baying of the World Eaters grew closer; their men were nothing more then bloodied shells where the World Eaters and their father had lain them to waste. It mattered not that they had taken a toll of traitors with them, just that there were not enough of them to continue the battle, and Angron would eventually carve a bloody path to the centre of Prospero itself. They themselves, like their brothers, had fought to point of virtual exhaustion, even for an Astarte whose energy seemed to be boundless; this was more then just a fight to dissuade intruders, this was survival at its bloodiest. In days to come, it would be remembered as the last stand of Jeriz, a final show of defiance to the deranged World Eaters and their father.

They did a weapons check; their bolters had run dry, and all they had were swords, chainswords, and other hand held weapons. Aken's psychic powers, already weak, were also being severely blocked.

"Well," Hofkyier said as he threw his ruined helm to the ground, "we could always use foul language."

Aken chuckled. "Whatever works, cousin." He too had no helm; it had been damaged in an earlier battle with a World Eater, who now lay dead somewhere on the battlefield.

"It is time then," Brother Arten whispered.

"Yes, Musana," Aken sighed, "it is time; so remove your helms, brothers, to face our last minutes looking upon our homeworld's skies."

The remaining Thousand Sons did as they were ordered, as did the Space Wolves. Hofkyier grasped Aken's arm in a show of brotherhood and behind them their brothers did the same; the enmity between the two Legions, on this day and in this theatre of war, were forgotten. They had fought together, bled together, and now prepared to meet the Fates together.

"Bad language, huh," Aken smirked. "If only that would work."

Hofkyier smirked dryly, then smiled, showing his canines; he said nothing but the implication was there - time to pay the reaper. They did not charge towards the World Eaters who were massing around them, they headed straight for the head; and although they would not see the sunset once more, they made sure that Angron would not remember this as an easy battle. And, as they were cut down by his axes, they sang songs of their childhoods, songs of Prospero merging with songs of Fenris. This hour, it did not matter that they died, only that they died well.


	6. Chapter Five

They stood looking at the dead Marines; they felt nothing for the dead World Eaters that lay at the bodies of the dead Space Wolves and Thousand Sons, but both felt a sense of pride and loss, pride that their sons had fought to the bitter end and loss that they would never see the light again. These were brave battle-brothers and cousins-in-arms, and their names would forever ring in the memories and chants of the halls of Fenris. It didn't take long to work out what had happened to them: they had been cut down by the mighty sweeps of twin axes, axes that could only belong to one being, a demigod who was used to such artistry in carnage.

As the Apothecaries carried out their grisly tasks of collecting the gene-seed from the fallen and intoning rites over the bodies of those they worked on, the two demigods glared at the trail of carnage the traitors had left in their wake. Spireguard, who had also fought against the insane sons of the War Hound, lay at awkward angles. Some of their bodies were barely recognisable, being dismembered and scattered into bloody chunks of meat by bolter fire. The first of the two, a red skinned giant with only one eye, clenched his fists and could barely stop himself from shaking. He mourned not just the loss of his sons but the loss of the equally loyal and adoring Spireguard, and above all the devastation that had been inflicted on his world, a planet that was by now nearly entirely ruined. The second, a golden-haired giant with all the strength and violence of a planet he called home wrapped into one powerful and violent spirit, rested a giant hand on the shoulder of the red-skinned titan. Up until recently, he would barely have acknowledged the crimson giant as a brother.

"Time to go, Magnus, time to find Angron," Leman Russ quietly spoke.

* * *

They had needed to run the gauntlet of fire as they had come here; as soon as their vessels had appeared in Prosperine system space, they had been fired on. And as the battle in the stars had commenced, the battle for Prospero was completing itself. Many Thousand Sons, and Space Wolves of the first wave, were still alive, and the Pyramid held; but Prospero, the world, was all but dead.

Ahriman stood beside his father, shaking with unsuppressed rage at the deaths of so many of his brothers, cousins, and loyal human brethren. The expression on his father's face was enough to tell him that, had this been any other Legion delivering the Emperor's judgment, Magnus might have accepted it. Even if it had been the Space Wolves, Magnus might have followed his father's decrees to the last. Despite the years of suspicion between the two Legions, there had been an understanding between them as well; the Wolves were there in case ones such as the Sons went too far. Now, however, there would be no holding back. Ahriman met his father's baleful gaze and knew the look coiled within it.

The look was simple, and what it signified was simpler: that there would be no quarter given, Angron or Magnus would die here, and if Magnus could help it, it would be his enemy. Magnus began to walk, and without a word, Russ fell into step with his brother; the other companies fell in behind the two Primarchs. There was no animosity, there were no jeering or snide remarks, only a comradeship that was rarely seen between any two Legions, except perhaps the Luna Wolves and the Blood Angels.

They would fight for a world that was being torn to pieces, and they would kill a brother Legion to do it.

"Save my city, Russ," Magnus said. "I will focus on finding Angron."

Russ snarled. "Will you truly confront him yourself, after all that we have discussed to?"

"I plan to," Magnus said, "if I must. And you gave an oath. But that is not my focus, Russ; simply put, none but Angron can stand against either of us, so there is no need to fight together when time is of the essence. We will contact each other when we find the Red Angel."

And, without a further word, the Primarchs strode forward.

The galaxy would burn with vengeance.

* * *

Angron roared his frenzy as more Space Wolves and Thousand Sons fell to the might of his axes; but only one of them was in his own hands. Kharn, ever faithful and ever beside his father, wielded Gorechild, a gift given to him as his father's favoured son as they entered the Prosperine system. The other axe, Gorefather, for now sat in his left hand, with the blood of Astartes running from it in never-ending rivulets; but in his right hand sat Blackblade. It had been a gift from his father, to ensure victory in all that he did. It was a daemonic blade of such thirst and borderline intellect that it seemed to know what its new master craved more then anything else in the universe; and right now he was getting it.

He stood back and let Kharn and Eighth Company move around to the right flank. First Company moved to the left at a silent command from the Equerry, who seemed to have more power then even the First Captain himself in the eyes of the Primarch. Ahead were a company of Space Wolves; their banner denoted them as the 24th Great Company, and beside them there was a squad from the newly founded (fitting, that the Thousand Sons' last act was a pointless reorganisation) 13th Fellowship of the Thousand Sons. Kharn's nose twitched as he smelled the arcana in the air. He set his teeth in an approximation of a griterhos's snarl: the Primarch said that all powerful Librarians were to be taken, as the Emperor's orders were quite specific in that department. Kharn glanced over his shoulder to see his father stand stock-still and smiled to himself: he was letting them see him, but he would let his hounds have the honour of this kill. There would be much rope-pride when this battle was over.

* * *

Wolf Lord Stormblood and Captain Abrim stopped their conversation about the defense of the Great Pyramid as they felt the presence of something equally monstrous and beguiling nearby. They turned slowly and stared at the towering figure that was Angron, the Red Angel of Nuceria, standing there. His mighty arms were folded across his chest, his face was caked in the blood of the fallen, and his armour - painted gold and red - was now redder yet with the blood he had spilt. Stormblood made the sign of Fenris as the towering Primarch of the World Eaters just stood, watching them, as an Alpha would intimidate his enemies.

The two captains were also aware that this was not what it seemed. They had heard the sacrifice of the two sergeants, their death cries had been heard and felt by every warrior in the Astartes, psyker or not. Angron's warriors were known for their love of close combat, and combat in general, and the fact that the Red Angel was not charging at them screaming was inherently surprising.

Njral Stormblood cocked his head a little; he did not need to be a psyker or a seer to hear the Primarch breathing. He filtered out those around him and searched with his wolf senses. In a closed vox he informed Abrim what he had heard.  
**  
++ It would appear, cousin, that we are being corralled. ++**

**++ How many, Njral? ++**

**++ Two Companies; this is going to be more than a skirmish, and one that does not favor us. A****re you ready to die for your world? ++**

**++ Wouldn't you be? ++**

**++ Then for Russ and the Wolftime. ++**

**++ For the Crimson King and Prospero. ++**

The respective Captains told their men to be ready for anything; and just as the Corvidae Thousand Son Jamal and Space Wolf Rune Priest Ugas warned of the attacks on the flank, another voice - a powerful voice - caused them to all stop.

**Fight well, sons of Russ, sons of Prospero; for we have come to join the battle.**

Angron turned, sensing the change in the air, and drew his weapons as the red giant that was Magnus loomed out of the battlefield smog, along with First Fellowship Thousand Sons. Angron let a bloody smile curve across and warp his face: now _this_ was going to be a battle.

* * *

The atmosphere was charged, and barely any Astarte or human soldier moved as the two Primarchs faced each other. Angron could barely believe his luck: this war was not only a chance to put down the Cyclops and take him in chains back to their father, but a chance to finally show the Wolf King who was the top dog in the galaxy, to break him and send him back to Fenris in a wooden box.

Angron, the War Hound, The Red Angel, who had had his rage enhanced to murderous levels by his unknown masters - indeed, he was rage incarnate - and nevertheless held a martial pride and honour that none could dispute. Angron, who - years ago - had not forgiven his father for the dishonour of being unable to honour his long dead brothers and sisters. Now, for the first time, his bloody mind began to feel a sense of vindication, for he was the Emperor's war and the Emperor's way.

Magnus the Red, the Crimson King, the Cyclops, who was second only to the Emperor in terms of psychic might. Magnus, the one who (in now-forgotten plans) would sit on the Golden Throne and channel the power of the Webway, keeping it open so that the Emperor and his loyal sons would continue the extermination of the xenos across the galaxy in ways that were quicker and safer than even through the Warp. He now faced the monster that had been his brother (but Angron had not, in his mind, been a brother since those thought-killing nails were driven into his forehead) and his rage was incandescent. His beloved scions were dead at the hands of Angron and his deranged sons, his people were scared and running for their lives from the unclean rituals of the World Eater Astartes, and - as he met Angrons steady gaze with his own - all he could see in Angrons future were blood and skulls.

Magnus glanced at Sobek and the First Fellowship elements he controlled, Ahriman having gone with Russ; all through his vox, reports came in of Thousand Sons and Rout dropping over Prospero, making their way towards the city to try and stop the blood-bent World Eaters.

"Sobek."

"Lord?" Sobek replied, not taking his eyes or his prognostic gaze off the World Eaters.

"Show these barbarians that Prospero has fury within, too!"

"It shall be done, lord."

He returned his gaze to Angron, almost daring him to make the first move; but Angron's mind was already made up and, with a roar that could shake mountains and did shake pyramids, he launched himself at Magnus.

* * *

It was a whole different circumstance: when fighting alongside your own Primarch (admittedly by now distant) and against your own cousins, while pressed forth by the Butcher's Nails, the exhilaration was like a narcotic whose energy never ended, but even the mighty Kharn could not doubt the power of the Wolf King as he and his sons, together with some Thousand Sons, tore into the World Eaters like a massed battle of olden Terra. There were roars from the Wolves and battle cants from the psyker Astartes, not to mention the cries of the humans that fought with the World Eaters and the other two Leigons.

Four Titans, three Scouts against a Warlord, blared out their battle horns in challenge as they strode the battlefield like ancient gods, their very footfalls causing the ground to shake and mountains to tumble. As the Legio that had sided with Angron turned against their own brothers, the air was charged with the sound of the mighty behemoths letting their war horns sound and their plasma cannons rip through each other, ignoring the ants below them and seeking only to kill their own for battle honour. Against them was Canis Vertex, controlled by the psychic powers of the Thousand Sons Captain Khalophis. Despite the erratic and weakened nature of many Thousand Sons' abilities, Khalophis' control over the Titan that stood as his cult's symbol was unbreakable.

Dreadnoughts clashed, seeking to be the first to gain the upper hand, their claws and their cannons firing salvos that had human ears bleeding. Even nails-mad Kharn felt a ringing in his ears as the sounds were barely dulled by his helm's suppressors. He roared at his men to keep fighting as they fell back against the fury of the Wolf King and sought to re-group; already in with the Blood God, Kharn was not having anyone retreat, for it would be an honourable death if one was to fall to the might of the Primarch. He was no fool, no Astarte could kill a Primarch, but he could take some of the bastard wolves and psykers with him. He let Gorechild flow and it tore into Astartes armour and limbs alike: he was the favoured of Angron, and he would show them all why he was the Red Angel's equerry and most trusted lieutenant.

Russ was not only a sight to be feared but a source of inspiration, not only for the Rout who adored him but the Thousand Sons who had once been so terrified of him. Ahriman found himself fighting alongside Russ and Bjorn; Bjorn took the head off a World Eater and glanced at the helmless Ahriman who had been left thus some time earlier, thanks to a misfired bolt from Khalophis's Titan.

"Do what you do best, Psyker," Bjorn roughly ordered. "For this day alone shall be enough; let's send these sons of whores back into the Warp, where they belong!"

Ahriman did not need telling twice and, alongside his psyker brothers, tore into the defences of the World Eaters. More than in any other battle, perhaps, Ahriman enjoyed what he was doing. But although being alongside Russ was inspirational, as he grabbed a dreadnaught of the World Eaters and tore its sarcophagus from it, he knew well that the real fight was just beginning.

* * *

Angron leapt at Magnus, who caught the Red Angel by the throat and squeezed. Both no longer cared about the sanctity of brother bonds: to Magnus, this one had come to slaughter his people, who he had helped bring into the vague acceptance of the Imperium. His people whom the Emperor had called upon to serve as telepaths in his vast navies, and astropaths to bridge the great interstellar gaps, who had gone to do what had to be done on every edge. All that had been wiped away in a single order. With a roar of pure rage, he threw Angron aside like he was a piece of meat and turned to face the onslaught once more.

Angron shook his head and got to his feet; a smile of sorts crossed his insane visage. So, the Crimson King had some guts in him after all, he could fight like a Primarch, and this would indeed turn out to be a worthy duel. He welcomed it; more than that, he wanted it. With Gorefather and Blackblade swinging, he tore into the Astartes that had attempted to protect their father, wetting his blades with their blood; and with a well-aimed throw, Gorefather struck Magnus in the arm.

Magnus roared in genuine pain and, with a cry, pulled the mighty axe from his arm, his enhanced physiology already stemming the blood flow. His arm would be a weak point for Angron to attack at any given opportunity. He ducked as Angron came in with his other axe, and Magnus knew that if that thing even scratched him, he would have a world of pain.

The blade writhed with the energies of the Warp, not to mention the energies of the maddened Primarch holding it. Magnus moved backwards, just out of reach of the blade, and had to think quickly. Not for the first time, he knew that he had been played by the gods of the Warp; and, for the first time, by his father. He could only curse himself for his own arrogance in believing he could master such beings; it had cost him his eye to cure his Legion of the flesh change, they had somehow tricked him into allowing false Tutelaries for decades, and now, those same powers sought to destroy his world and him.

And they had a real chance of succeeding.

He goaded Angron, jeered him by saying that only the true warriors of Nuceria were worth any honour, where real men fought with their bodies and not trinkets given to them by their father. It worked. Angron sheathed Blackblade and, with the roar of a man still haunted by his own perceived shame, he almost flew across the short expanse between him and Magnus, landing a blow which would have taken an Astartes head off its shoulders and crushed a humans head.

Magnus shook his head, his whole body juddering from the strength of the blow from his brother, and as he sought to stop the ringing in his ears a second blow landed, cracking his breast plate and forcing him onto his back. He cursed himself for being so stupid: in a bid to get Angron to react like (more of) a rage-maddened fool he had forgotten about those damn implants. Angron's rage did not make him weak, instead strengthening him; the implants made him what he was, ans what he was was unpredictable. It was no wonder that planets that had rebelled suddenly submitted when the Red Angel came to town.

He could no longer see Russ, and a quick mindseek assured him that the Wolf King was on the way to Tizca's center, in the heat of battle. There were no Astartes, they had all fallen back towards the city, it was just him and Angron. He knew that he could not hold out against his insane brother for long; he was no weakling, but he knew that the only ones that could hope to sustain a Primarch-on-Primarch duel with Angron would have been Horus or Sanguinius.

He let a rush of air escape his lungs as Angron bodyslammed him and, grabbing his head, began to pound it into the ground. Magnus reached up and made a claw of his fingers, then jabbed his brother in the eyes, Angron roared and released his brother for long enough for Magnus to kick the madman over his head and get to his feet.

"Blood and skulls, Angron," he spoke through a bloody mouth. "You serve the master of blood and skulls; you will again become a puppet for the one who just wants the blood. You will be a slave once more."

Angron narrowed his eyes. "I am no one's slave, Psyker!"

"You don't see it, do you? They corrupted father, and now - now that very force that appeals to your martial pride is enslaving you and your bastard sons, bit by bit. How your destiny went unlived, Angron: a slave as a youth for the entertainment of others, and at the end, a slave to a god who doesn't even exist as we know it."

Angron roared with anger and ran the short gap between him and Magnus; at the last moment, Magnus sidestepped and unloaded a psychic attack on his brother, sending some of the images his precognition had seen into his brothers head, one possible and indeed likely timeline. A broken Legion, Angron as a red skinned demon, and all around him blood, skulls, and chains marking the will of Khorne.

Angron clutched his head and let a roar go, trying to bring his own shields up to send the images away; but he was dealing with Magnus, second only to their father in power, and the only way to deal with Magnus was to -

The Blackblade was embedded in Magnus's chest, and the power writhing within the demonic blade brought Magnus to his knees. He pulled the blade out and tossed it away like it was contagious; he went to get to his feet, but whatever poison was on that possessed trinket was working its way through his body. The battle within him caused his hands to tremble. And now, in that instant when he had stopped fighting, he could feel Prospero's pain.

She called to him, pleaded with him to stop this agony; as he looked around him, he saw lances of light erupt from the heavens, striking at Prospero's surface. Whether they were literal or metaphorical did not, right now, matter. He swayed, unsteady on his feet, and closed his eye; a single tear fell from it as he mourned the passing of his world. He would get rid of the invaders, but Prospero would never be the same. She died now, and his people would at best have to find a new home, one that was far from the Imperium's tainted touch.

He saw Angron reach for him and, with what strength he had left, he drove his fist upwards, into the armoured legs, cracking the protected areas around the Red Angel's knees, causing Angron to sink to them in genuine pain. Magnus drew his fist back and slammed it repeatedly into the Red Angel's face; but, as he used what physical strength he had left, his body would not stop bleeding. He fell onto his back, feeling all his strength drain.

Angron got to his feet, losing his balance a couple of times, then reached down and grabbed Magnus. "I was to take you back in chains, Cyclops," he growled. "But I think I will kill you here."

Magnus realised that it was not his body that was important: the Emperor wanted his mind, and his body did not really matter. He began to laugh, even as Angron lifted him high into the air, roaring his victory to all those who heard it.

* * *

Russ turned, his eyesight keenly picking out what others could not, and with a roar he began to run back, his footfalls causing the world to cry out in more pain as the navy above struck at her life force. He had never run so fast, not since he was a cub on Fenris. He prayed to mother Fenris, despite every iota of the Imperial Truth, that he would get there in time; he did not want Magnus to die. Funny how that was true for the first time now, after all these years; but he did not want Magnus to die.

* * *

Angron held Magnus high for a moment and looked up. "Any last words, Cyclops?!"

Magnus turned his gaze onto the Red Angel. "You will be a slave to blood and skulls, Angron. I will be free; you - you will not."

Angron brought Magnus crashing across his back, bending his spine and then snapping it like a twig. Even Magnus's will could not stop the roar of pain that erupted from his broken body, and in the psychic shockwave every Thousand Son began to weep, whether or not they had access to their psychic abilities at that point; their master's fate reached into their very souls. and in conjoined grief they struck back at their attackers with a renewed fury that caused even the Rout to pause.

Angron dropped his brother's broken body and knelt down. He took some of the dirt of Prospero and, after making a cut on his body, rubbed the dirt into it, sealing his victory. He looked at Magnus for a long time and briefly, very briefly, Magnus saw what Angron might have been, might have become, had he not been treated like some lab shrew on Nuceria.

"I pity you, Angron," he whispered before closing his eyes.

Angron raised his fist to strike again, then lowered it. To strike now would be a coward's blow, and he was not a coward. He got to his feet and looked around him. Prospero had fallen, and the Fifteenth was broken; but the battle was by now unwinnable, and there was no certainty within him that any of the Inner Circle could be brought to Terra.  
**  
++ My eaters of worlds, return to orbit; we shall blast this rock into oblivion. Bring our dead so that they may be honoured. ++**

He turned and heard a groaning; moving to where the sound was, he found Kharn pulling himself from under a fallen Dreadnought. Angron reached down and lifted his favoured son, as if he were no more then a baby, and carried him away.

* * *

Russ groaned as he saw Magnus's broken body and crouched down. He could get no pulse, no breath; and he cursed himself for letting his oath and strategy take him from what he should have done.

"Do not concern yourself, brother; my body is broken but my mind is not," Magnus slowly spoke.

"Magnus… we can find a way to heal you."

"I doubt it, Leman." Magnus grinned a sickly grin. "I could, with the correct path, but I will no longer put my trust in those creatures of the Warp, who led me down my path of arrogance. This world is dead, in the end."

"I have ordered the evacuation." Russ had seen the lances of light from the sky.

His sons and nephews on their vessels had managed to stop the much larger World Eater fleet, but it would not be for long; just long enough, he hoped, to get the people away from here. Perhaps Prospero would explode, or perhaps she wouldn't, but she would not be inhabitable, or for that matter inhabited. Many had survived, but far fewer than should have.

He lifted Magnus into his arms and ordered his ship to beam him back. He would hunt Angron down, and he would finish him off. He swore every oath he knew, every vow that was ever to be made. Angron would be his.


	7. Chapter Six

The news filtered through the Thousand Sons that their father was crippled, relayed by the Athanae whose powers were gradually returning to them; and the Space Wolves that were with them said nothing. They had, after all, no idea what to say. To lose a brother in battle was one thing; but now a Primarch had fallen, and that was in itself unthinkable. As the vessels began to move away to honour Magnus's request, a bright light engulfed the heavens. And as every head turned to the viewing screens across both the World Eater and the allied Fenrisian-Prosperine fleets, Prospero exploded.

The pinnacle of sorcery and knowledge, hope and solitude, was gone forever. The light of Tizca had gone out, and no power in the heavens could ignite it again.

Ahriman clenched his fists in anger and grief. Bjorn, who had boarded with him (holding a couple of children, whom he had sent with the human medics), stood beside the First Captain and Chief Librarian of the Thousand Sons. He watched, like Ahriman, as Prospero became nothing more then a set of lights in the sky. The shockwave had knocked some of the combined fleet's vessels into silence, but their tech-priests and crews would get them working again. It was the line of World Eaters that bothered Bjorn; their vessels were blocking any exit to the jump point.

That and, of course, the end of an Astarte homeworld.

"We still have to deal with _them_, Ahzek." Bjorn used Ahriman's first name, pointing to the enemy vessels.

"The _Photep_ will bring fire and destruction upon them, Bjorn." Ahriman's voice sounded distant, as if he was not completely there.

Magnus was still aboard the _Hrankfel_, being stabilised as best the Rout's Wolf Priests and the Thousand Sons' Pavoni under Hathor Maat could, with Russ supervising. Still, that did not mean that the Wolf King would not fight.

Ahriman turned to his human commander and snarled; Bjorn saw the incandescent fury of eternity spread across the First Captain's face, something beyond mere rage. It was something timeless, something vengeant, which he had never seen even on the faces of his own brothers, who were in the grasp of battle-fury so much more often. "I have the bridge. Bring all weapons to bear, shields raised. I will end them."

Bjorn smiled a wolfish smile; this was how he liked to see his cousins fight, with fire in their bellies and heart in their weapons. The World Eaters had killed many of their people, had at best crippled their beloved Primarch, and had utterly destroyed their homeworld. To the Thousand Sons, there would be no going back from this, not ever.

"I offer my services, First Librarian." Bjorn stood tall, a warrior of Tra, the Vlka Fenryka's Third Company, and one of Russ's closest sons. He wanted to be a part of this; he had lost some good brothers to those insane bastards, though that was far from the scale of Ahriman's loss.

"Offer accepted," Ahriman whispered and took to his throne. With Magnus incapacitated, this was his fight. He ordered all able-bodied ships to be prepared to fight their way through, gazing into the threads of the future to see optimal trajectories and sending them through the Athanae to his brethren. Raptora and Pyrae prepared to bolster the fleet's guns, and Ahriman thought back to Khalophis' heroics with the Canis Vertex. The Titan, like its commander, had escaped Prospero safely, destroying three Warhounds along the way; but in the end the Sixth Captain's defense of Tizca had been in vain, and the unfallen city had vanished in an instant. Athanae and Corvidae helped Ahriman coordinate the fleet's actions. Pavoni stood by, preparing to lead boarding defenses.

Magnus and Prospero would be avenged.

* * *

The _Sphinx_ dodged away from the fire coming from the _Rage of the Imperium_, but a lucky broadside scored a successful strike. Down in the engine rooms, men and women flew through the air as the explosions struck. The medics were having a hard time keeping up with the casualties; no space battle was ever easy, and Magnus and Russ were greatly outnumbered.

Captain Ramasus of the 45th Fellowship, a member of the telekinetic Raptora cult, gripped the seat of his command throne. Like Ahriman, he was Terran-born, but like Ahriman, he had been beyond incensed at the death and destruction rained upon his adoptive world. He had taken out a couple of battle barges, the lances from his guns blowing them into the oblivion and the Warp; now he was up against a mere Strike Cruiser, but he knew the history of the _Rage of the Imperium._ When it came to space battles, she knew exactly what she was doing. It was no wonder that she was held in high regard by Angron himself.

"My lord, we have an incoming vox message," the commander of the vox, a woman by the name of Nephari, turned and said.

"Put it through," he ordered, "and get me some more weapons. I need to keep that monster at bay!" His Raptora abilities were tired, both from heavy use and from the nearness of the power-dulling World Eaters. He needed a moment of rest.

"Perhaps, cousin, we can help." A gruff voice came over the vox; it was not in the harsh tones of a Space Wolf, more like -

His eyes widened a little. "Who are you?"

"This is Captain Jhal and Captain K'lun, of the World Eaters and Salamanders respectfully. I know you have no reason to trust us, cousin, but I assure you that we are not the same as our fallen brethren. Allow me to have the _Heart of Truth_ and the _Fires of Nocturne_ get you out of this mess."

Ramasus closed his eyes, a little thankful that he had heard what he had heard. So there were some loyal World Eaters and Salamanders alive; they must have escaped the cull of their Legions, which Mortarion had talked about. Still, he was wary, very much so.

Without waiting for his answer, the _Heart of Truth_ and _Fires of Nocturne_ rode in, both firing lances at the _Rage of the Imperium_; and as he stared at his screen, recovering his breath, parts of the vessel began exploding out. Gathering his strength, he roared to fire whatever he had left, guiding the missiles into weak points on the _Rage of the Imperium_'s hull; the missiles streaked towards the near-crippled vessel. Then, he punched the air in delight, as she finally exploded.

"That's for my home," he whispered and stood up. "That's for Prospero, dogs." He clasped his hands behind his back and allowed the human captain to take his place in the command throne, focusing on dealing with the defectors.

"Cousin," K'lun spoke. "We seek asylum within the ranks of the true Astartes."

Ramasus nodded to himself. "Welcome back, cousins. We shall see that Lord Russ is informed, but I warn you that he may not be so accepting of what you say."

"Let the cards lay where they fall," Jhal answered. "We will remain to continue this battle until you are ready to leave."

"Your aid, cousin, is appreciated."

Jhal snorted a little. "We have nothing else to do, cousin; my father and brothers have – changed to something I want no part of. I am still a World Eater, but they are... I do not even know, anymore."

Ramasus nodded in understanding and ordered a message to be sent to Lord Russ informing him of this new development, although he had hesitated at first, so used to sending such missives to his own father. Like all in the Thousand Sons, he had been close to Magnus the Red; there was a bond between the Astartes of the Thousand Sons and their Primarch that not even the Luna Wolves or Blood Angels, or indeed the Space Wolves, could match. There had only been a thousand of them in the end-beginning that had been free of the flesh change. But, with his own powers and his own selflessness, Magnus had saved the Legion. He had brought the Thousand Sons back from the brink of extinction, which in itself was the truest reason to have such a close bond with him: no other Primarch had done quite so much for their Legion. It was not a perfect cure, and the flesh-change had claimed a few victims, but nowhere near as many as before Magnus's finding; indeed, Lord Ahriman's own genetic brother had succumbed to it, and so he, more than others, was fully aware of the damage such changes did. Ramasus, for his part, had barely held the change off with his own willpower, before Magnus had been found; he recalled the horror of nearly losing himself, and had infinite gratitude towards Magnus merely for rescuing the Legion from that.

It was more then that: Magnus was their father, their progenitor, and their teacher. He knew each and every Thousand Son by name, as well as each member of the Spireguard. He cherished all of them as part of Prospero's heart; and now, with their father in whatever state he was in and Prospero gone, they were - what?

A Legion without a father, a Legion without a home, and for the moment, a Legion without a soul.

* * *

The space battle raged for several days, and the losses incurred on both sides were great; but through Ahriman's strategies and foresight, the World Eaters were pushed back and away from Prospero. The greatest battle was forged by the _Conqueror_, Angron's flagship, the _Hrankfel_, Russ's flagship, and the _Photep_, Magnus's flagship, commanded by Ahriman. Skalds would later call it Ahriman's Cosmic Dance. As the Thousand Sons and Space Wolves left what had been Prosperine space towards the world of Kegara, the _Photep_ and _Hrankfel_ closed around the _Conqueror_ to prevent it from following.

The dance had begun with Angron ordering all his guns to take them out piecemeal; but, with Russ commanding his vessel and Bjorn leading with his considerable knowledge the ship Ahriman was distracted from, it was not as easy as the Red Angel first thought. Angron cursed his laxness. If it had been any other commander, he might have been able to crush them; but he was against one of his brothers, and that was never to be underestimated. The Wolves and the Thousand Sons moved in synchronised harmony, whilst the World Eaters attempted to come close enough to dispense boarding parties.

**++ Lord Russ, perhaps now would be a good time to leave the battle. My apologies, Lord, but you do have Lord Magnus aboard, and the Thousand Sons will need to know that he is still alive. I cannot risk Angron getting a lucky shot ++**

The line was silent for a moment, and Bjorn thought for one moment he had offended the Great Wolf; so he was surprised when a dry booming chuckle came over the line.

**++ Always trying to tell me what to do, aren't you, cub? ++**

**++ Maybe because my balls are big enough to do just that, Lord Russ. ++**

Russ laughed.** ++ Very well; we will head for the jump point, be sure to be behind us. I will not have my brother's flagship made into tiny atoms. ++  
**Bjorn glanced at Ahriman and nodded.** ++ We will cover you, Lord, and we will not be far behind. ++**

The battle seemed to be over; but as the _Photep_ began to turn to cover the _Hrankfel_, the _Conqueror_ took out her engines with one shot that sent the engineering teams rushing to aid the stricken engines and Ahriman screaming for a few instants, in sympathetic pain.

"Lord Ahriman, there are voided spaces on decks twenty through to twenty–five," one of the bridge crew alerted him.

"I can see that," Ahriman grimly replied.

Magos Yvelen bowed his head and leant in. "My Lord First Captain, we will not be able to repair her quick enough. We are dead in the water, to quote an old Terran phrase. Ingrea will need more time then we have."

Bjorn joined them and glanced at the readouts: it was true, and he could already see the launch bays open up with boarding tubes from the World Eaters vessel. The gunners took some out in mid flight, but they would not be able to take them all out, and what limited shields they had would not last long.

"I think we are in for a man-on-man shit kicking," he retorted, as easily as at a feast.

The Magos blanched at the blunt words of Bjorn, and Ahriman simply hid his smile and turned his attention to the crew. He knew that once those monsters got on board, there would be no escape; but all the same, he knew they still had a chance. He had won the battle, while goading Angron to send boarders rather than continuing to obliterate the _Photep_ from a distance, where they would have been defenceless. He pressed the intra-ship vox.

"All Astartes, prepare to repel boarders!"

* * *

Bjorn walked alongside him, life boats being launched towards the _Hrankfel_ as per the Librarian's orders that all civilians were to be off the vessel. He had already alerted the Wolf King, but had insisted that the _Photep_ would stand her ground; it was important that their father got to his new world, so that he could begin to rebuild his Legion. Russ, who had never been one to walk away from a fight, had been quite admiring of the First Captain; he told them to send as many civilians as they could.

When Ahriman had seen the civilians' leader on the _Photep_, a woman by the name of Yasmin, she had said they would send the children over, with their parents, but that the rest of them would fight. It had taken him and Bjorn quite by surprise. So much so, in fact, that the grizzled Space Wolf started getting a little respect for the human Prosperons: they had lost their homes, their world, and more then likely loved ones, so they had decided to fight and gain some measure of self-respect back. So it was agreed that those who could fight would stay, while those who couldn't fight would go to the Primarch's flagship.

Ahriman also sent some Astartes from his company back with them as escort, as did Bjorn. There was another reason for it and the Sergeants that went back were silenced when it was explained to them: should the _Photep_ fall, then someone needed to keep those civilians alive. With all that done and the bridge keeping them informed of where the boarding tubes were heading, they readied themselves.

Bjorn, set for battle, looked at Ahzek Ahriman's face, and was surprised to see a smile on it, though his counterpart's eyes still shone with stormlit fury.

"What is it?" he asked, and Ahriman chuckled in response.

"I have seen this," he stated. "This was the end I guided the battle to, from the very beginning of our clash. One way or another, it ends here, and the Prtimarchs survive. My powers are sputtering as the torpedoes approach, but nevertheless, Bjorn, I still know this: the butchers have paid a steep price indeed for the fate of Prospero."


	8. Chapter Seven

The sound of metal crashing to the floor was the sound of hell coming to the _Photep_. Within moments of each other, like some macabre synchronised dance, the World Eaters came aboard the Thousand Sons' flagship. They were ordered to kill everyone aboard except Ahriman, who was to be taken captive. The battle in the regal vessel's corridors began almost immediately, the Rout and the Psyker Legion working side-by-side to cut off the intruders and corral them, corner them, then kill the. It no longer mattered that these were cousins, Astartes, part of a brotherhood that should never have been at odds like this; all that mattered was that they were put down, and put down _fast_.

Bolter fire racked the corridors, killing World Eater, Thousand Son, and Space Wolf alike. Human warriors were thrown through the air as krak grenades scattered their bodies, far more fragile, to the four winds. Ahriman and his squad stared as a beast, the likes of which they had never seen before, prowled through the corridor before them, the remains of the same human woman that had been so eager to fight within its mouth.

Its skin was crimson, and every psychic attack against it seemed to make it stronger. Ahriman quickly realised that the reason was the collar that grew out of its neck, almost like a Librarian's hood. Its teeth were massive and dripped saliva and blood, its claws caused great rents in the floor as it walked, and it moved with the speed of lightning, faster than almost anyone could react, especially with psychic powers completely shorted. Immediately, it took down Kareem, one of the newly inducted Thousand Sons; he roared in pain which was cut off with a gout of blood as the Flesh Hound bit him in two. The Thousand Sons moved backwards, not sure how to deal with such a monster. Before they could even think of a strategy, Lerasus was taken down, loosing his arm.

A giant shape moved past the Sekhmet and grappled with the beast like it was wrestling a bear. Ahriman heaved a sigh of relief as Odinjagn, one of Bjorn's squad, pried the massive jaws of the beast open and, despite the horrendous wounds on his arms and face, yelled for a grenade. Masala tossed a grenade into the open jaws and, at the last moment, Odinjagn dived out the way. The beast made to move after him, stopped, and then - with an almost comical expression on its face - exploded into large chunks of meat and bone.

Ahriman helped the Space Wolf up and nodded. "My thanks, cousin."

"Damn thing took down three of our Rune Priests, and a bunch of battle-brothers, before Bjorn realised no psychic powers worked against it, no matter the form," Odinjagn explained. "He sent me to warn you that they are all over the vessel and have killed many." Odin shrugged off the aid of Naseen, the present Pavoni; then, remembered his manners, explained himself. "My apologies, Apothecary; there are warriors far more needful of your ministrations."

"That thing could have poisoned you," Naseen concluded. "The moment you feel any different, tell me."

The Space Wolf inclined his head and returned his attention to Ahriman. "They want you."

"They said what?"

"We intercepted a vox transmission, one of our brothers served with the World Eaters once and learned their battle cant; they have orders to leave none alive save you, First Captain."

Ahriman's face set in a grim line and a shadow seemed to cross his face that had the Space Wolf making a ward across his chest. He raised his Hequa Staff above his head and snarled in defiance.

"If they think they can take me, then let them try; but it will not be as a willing lamb to their slaughter. I am Ahzek Ahriman, the First Librarian and First Captain of the Fifteenth Legion, the leader of the Corvidae; I am the eye of fate and the crux of eternity, and shadow's waves break upon my staff. There will be no surrender, of course, and if I am to die here then it will be as a warrior of the true Imperium, not one corrupted by an Emperor who has embraced that which he was defined by denying." His force staff began to glow, and Ahriman clenched it tighter. "Hear me, all Thousand Sons and sons of Russ: let not one of these_ dogs _survive, for honour, for vengeance, and for the Imperial Truth!"

All across the vox, there were roars of affirmation from Thousand Sons and Space Wolves, as well as the humans that remained.

"For Prospero and Fenris; for Magnus and for Russ!" he intoned, never having believed before this battle that he would say such a chant in his life, considering where the Sixth and Fifteenth Legions were relative to one another.

It galvanised the remaining forces, and once more titanic battles were fought along the many corridors of the _Photep_. Fire was exchanged from deep within her engine room to the bridge, where World Eaters had broken through and were battling the Sekhmet and Rout for control of the bridge. The human bridge crew were dead, cut down by the savage World Eaters, too insane in their own bloodlust to care which of their enemies they were killing. Bjorn and Ahriman fought side by side; around them lay the bodies of World Eaters and their demonic hounds, and every warrior in red and grey realised that both the skalds and the exiled record keepers of Prospero would forever write in the legends of their Legion of how two legends, who had been for many years enemies and mistrusting of each other, cast aside their differences and fought like brothers in arms.

Ahriman raised his bolter and fired, his left arm broken by a World Eater chainaxe whose owner now lay in a pool of his own blood where Bjorn had blown his head off. Ahriman pushed the larger Bjorn down and fired point blank into the face of a World Eater who had gone berserk. That enemy's face was a hideous parody of what he must have once been, and the Librarian believed he could see the implants almost bulging from their seams, as if they were going to burst through.

**++ My lord. ++** The voice of Magos Yvelen came across Ahriman's vox link.

**++ Make it quick, Priest, I am a little busy. ++** Ahriman fired again, his enhanced physiology flooding pain suppressants to his broken arm, but he had no time to allow it to knit back together, for he was constantly dancing with Bjorn to take out more of the enemy.

It was as if the World Eaters were determined to capture Ahriman above all else; then again, he supposed they dared not return to their father empty handed. Everyone was aware how Angron dealt with those who had failed him in ways that were not excusable.

**++ We are ready to resume our journey. ++**  
**  
++ What are you waiting for? ++** Bjorn yelled. **++ Get us the hell out of here! ++**

Ahriman chuckled to himself as he heard the protests of the Magos, who was not happy at how the Space Wolf had spoken to him. With an impatient sigh he cut the Magos off.

**++ Magos, as Pack Leader Bjorn so rightly said, get us the hell out of here, NOW! ++**

Bjorn heard mighty treadfalls and was about to swear when he saw the magnificent dreadnoughts that stood at each end of the bridge. One wore the livery of the Thousand Sons and he heard Ahriman whisper the name Turolis; the second wore the livery of the Space Wolves, and he whispered the name Krakeijol.

The two dreadnoughts waited until their brothers were out of the way (which took fractions of a moment) and then unleashed their hell upon the pirate-like berserkers that dared to soil the decks of this blessed vessel. Mighty chaingun fire shredded the armour of the World Eaters like it was nothing more then scrap, and giant flamers engulfed the Astartes, lighting their white and blue armour almost to a glowing extent. When it was over, the smell of scorched transhuman flesh was almost unbearable, even to Ahriman and Bjorn. They felt the _Photep_ lurch almost drunkenly as her engines were once more started, and then move away to re-join their fleet.

Ahriman lay on his back, Bjorn beside him; and despite the seriousness of the situation the two Astartes began to laugh, a laugh of victory and relief.

**++ We have enchained some of the treacherous dogs, First Captain ++** Turolis informed Ahriman.

Ahriman, too tired to even look up, blipped his acknowledgement and just lay on the deck of his ship, and laughed.

* * *

Horus stood, looking down at Magnus. He looked around and pulled a seat over, to sit beside his broken brother's body. He rested a giant hand over Magnus's and remained silent for a while. They had no idea if even Magnus's physiology would heal the damage wrought by Angron, and it was not as if they could ask their father for help. For the first time in his life, Horus felt apologetic for what little mistrust he had expressed regarding Magnus.

His brother had sacrificed his body to defend his sons, his people, and his home; he fought as any Primarch would fight despite losing access to his greatest advantage. There was no doubt he was a true son of the Emperor. Horus lowered his head as Magnus opened his eye.

"_Your_ words never hurt me, Horus," he quietly spoke. "We are warriors, but warriors of a different nature, that is all; and my differences with you never stopped us from being brothers."

Horus raised his head and smiled briefly. "Your warriors are on Kegara. Your legion was dealt a severe blow, Magnus, and I have no right to ask this of you, after all you have endured -"

"You want me to be the one to strike Father down, when the time arrives." It was not a question. Horus nodded.

Each of the Primarchs knew that, if it came to an all-out battle with the Emperor, only Magnus could even hope to beat him on the psychic level. Magnus was silent for a moment or two, almost as if he weighing something up in his mind.

"My body may never heal; but, when it comes to striking Father on the ethereal plane, then I will be the one to do it. Horus."

"Yes, Brother?"

"I want to go to Kegara; I must rest and replenish what strength I have."

"Russ is already making those arrangements," Horus assured him, and a smile crossed his face. "We were all wrong about the Thousand Sons, Crimson King."

Magnus laughed a little. "My sons are warriors, true, but they are also knowledge gatherers. Knowledge is _power,_ Horus, and we will need all that in the coming days."

"The rebellion is gathering speed," Horus observed. "We're calling ourselves the Coalition for the Restoration of the Imperial Truth."

"Iterator-chosen?"

"Indeed."

"That is enough for now, Lupercal, but when we defeat the Emperor - even before, really - mankind will need a new leader." He glanced at his brother. "And there is only one being for that job. The Thousand Sons will pledge their loyalty to Horus Lupercal."

Horus was taken aback; but before he could protest that there were others more able then he (perhaps Guilliman, who already ruled an empire, or Sanguinius), Magnus had closed his eye. Horus got to his feet and bowed his head before walking away. Russ came in just after and sat beside Magnus.

The weary Crimson King opened his eye briefly and met his stoic brother's features, then closed his eye once more and fell into a sleep. Russ took the crimson hand in his and held in the grasp of a warrior; leaning over, he kissed his brothers forehead. He had heard of the battle that Bjorn and Ahriman fought and led, and had experienced the latter's brilliance in the void battle. He leaned close to Magnus's ears and whispered.

"Our sons are true brothers, from now till the end, my brother."

The lights went down, and Leman Russ remained with his brother until they reached the new homeworld of the Thousand Sons.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED in the fourth book of the Renegades saga, _The Emperor's Will_.


End file.
